Hereafter
by TeeLights
Summary: Jaqen H'ghar is dead. Yet a man continues to cling to trinkets of memories left by a grey-eyed girl who was fierce as a wolf, and a girl who is no one cannot seem to forget either.
1. Chapter 1

**Hereafter**

TeeFade

**Disclaimer:** I am so glad George R. R. Martin allows me to play in his world  
with his characters,and goodness knows their genius does not belong to me!

Please enjoy this, my first AsoIaF fanfiction. I have this unhealthy obsession with Jaqen H'ghar,  
and I hope you will enjoy a look into a man's mind as much as I enjoy writing it. I am not sure  
exactly how long this will be. Reviews with thoughts and feedback will be greatly appreciated!  
I am thinking next chapter will be Arya's POV. Cool?

ooooo

It is not only the face that changes. Whole beings shift in and out of existence, and not without a price. Structure remains but its use chages—one may have perfectly functioning eyes yet is unable to see. Preferences, favourites, perceptions, opinions; all of these change, and more. If they do not change it is incomplete, for a man cannot cease to exist if there are trinkets kept, as if stuffed in a chest to be brought out on occasion and remembered fondly. It is impure. Wrong. Unprofessional. There should be no semblence of life after death.

Yet a man had been doing just that for many moons. He did not keep everything, only that which a man could not bear to part with. Her stare, stern and scowling and wrought with challenge. The feel of undoctored hate that always surrounded her. The smug, arrogant tone of voice that spoke his name and doomed him. A man had never come across such a creature—more wolf than child, and untameable at that.

There had been a long stretch of time where he'd heard nothing of her. Back then his box of trinkets only opened at night as flashes of dreams, so blurred and quick he felt he'd imagined it in the morning.

He hadn't meant to purposely think of her again. Of course he'd heard mention of her name in his travels. Even though her family had been all but demolished, the Stark name was on everyone's lips. It was the nature of the rumour in which he'd heard her mentioned that ultimately tempted his memories so. The box of trinkets he'd kept so closed and close to himself that he hadn't even known had been there burst open, overwhelming him with a sigh of relief.

Arya Stark. He had known Arya Stark. She had been fierce, stubborn, and intently lethal. Her eyes were hardened steel and whatever fear was in her was overcome by hate. Her life had been torn and broken but she'd childishly clung to the hope that vengeance could fix all of her problems. She was a dirty, snarling little thing. She had herself half convinced she was a boy and the other half of herself convinced that she was some sort of impenetrable vessel of judgement. She had many lessons to learn and much growing up to do. When he left her, she had been but a child betrayed.

But she had been found now, they said, and was the maiden reincarnate on her way to the marraige bed of Ramsay Bolton.

The thought brought on an unusual wave of anxiety. He should not know her, for Jaqen H'gar was dead, but he could not help it. The only way he can imagine her behaving long enough for the sickening man to throw his cloak around her shoulders was if they had her tied and gagged. A muzzle for the wolf girl. The thought made his stomach drop.

His face changed that night—his name, family, everything. As he made his way north to Winterfell posing as one of the many bannermen on their way to witness the union, his box of trinkets followed, opened so that he could pick through the memories whenever he needed.

Indeed the girl had brown hair, and it had grown ever so long since he had last seen her. She was a slight thing with hardly a woman's body. He had clenched his teeth and had already started tallying the list of who would need to die that night to free the wolf girl once again.

"A man remembers," he whispered as soon as he could sneak himself close to her. She would not know his face, but she had never been a stupid child. She knew what he was.

Her body twisted, her chin jutting out as her thin face tilted up to gaze at him. Too thin. And the lips too full. The eyes were the wrong colour and were filled only with thinly veiled fear.

This girl was no wolf.

He retreats before she can say anything, for her lips are twitching with want to ask questions and he will not be able to answer her honestly. This is not Arya, Arry, or any other of the silly names she'd given herself. This girl is innocent. Born with enough class and similarity to the Stark girl to pass as her for those who'd never met her before. She was in for a lifetime of hell and he was silently glad for it.

He stole away from Winterfell that same night, guiltless as he left the poor girl to suffer the consequences of chance. The longer this girl played the part, the longer his wolf girl would be safe.

He was satiated for a while with the knowledge that she was safely lost somewhere. His face changed again, and the box of trinkets was tucked away for safe keeping. But it wasn't going to last forever.

It took six months before the box burst open again.

He began to wonder, as if of a past life, how things would have been if she had said yes and gone with him. They would have crossed the Narrow Sea together, he would have shown her Braavos and she would be safe to grow into a fine faceless man.

The coin would give her safe passage, he knew, should she ever use it. And he would see her again, he knew, but not as she was. Not as she had been the last time he saw her, only a lovely girl, pleading and desperate.

_ Please don't go, Jaqen,_ she had said. The words were forever haunting him.

He might have stayed, too, if he were more than a servant to Him of Many Faces. If he were actually a man named Jaqen H'ghar. Or if he really was anyone at all. But this man had lost the priviledge to be his own person a long time ago.

_ Please don't go, Jaqen._

Her plead echoed, mingling with the memory of dark intent in her tone when she had spoken 'Jaqen H'ghar' as her third name.

A man had not felt more powerless than in that moment.

"Jaqen H'ghar," he would whisper sometimes, wondering if she still remembered that name, the dead man behind it, or even the Braavosi greeting he'd taught her.

_ Valar Morghulis_. He can almost hear her words.

"Valar Dohaeris," he murmurs the reply to his memories.

ooooo

He was a sellsword that night. On the trail of some poor lout whose enemies had hired a group of them to rob him. The others in his group had barged ahead in the forest, intent on cutting the horse and rider off in the path above.

The horses' frightened whinny was the first sign. A cold chill pricked its way up his spine, and though the sellsword was not a coward he hid himself best he could. Leaving his horse in the path and covering his tracks in the snow, the man stayed, flickering furiously throughout trinket after trinket, hoping to remember every last thing about the wolf girl before they found him. The figures he glimpsed through dark, bare branches were paler than the snow, frozen wounds gaping, hair made of icicles and eyes of the most unearthly blue.

Men screamed. Grunts, clashing of swords, horses shrieking, but still he remained with his memories.

It was well in the dark hours of morning before a man disengaged himself from his hiding place. The monsters had been myths until this very night. Though surprised they hadn't found him, he was glad it would not be the last time he would recall her words.

_ Please don't go, Jaqen._

He should have been prepared for it. For anything to creep up on him. Instead, as he was rifling through the dead mens' pockets he was surprised at their arrival.

It was the hairs on the back of his neck that warned him. There was something there, something watching. He froze in his crouched position, withdrew his hand from the empty saddlebag, and turned slowly.

There were three of them, and more pairs of glowing eyes peering out of the darkness beyond.

The thought that crossed his mind was most ironic: he was a dead man.

Puffs of white breath curled from their nostrils and snarling snouts. Lean bodies tensed, ears flattened, half-crouched and ready to move at a moments' notice, they poised, waiting for something.

A man met the eyes of the creature leading them. The wolf was huge, larger by half than any of the others, almost as large as the horse he'd abandoned earlier. Her teeth were bared at first, but her lips slowly relaxed, her menacing eyes slid into slits, as if she were contemplating something. All wild with undeniable intelligence.

A man let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. The wolf took a slow step back, her stare never leaving him. Her pack retreated with low growls to the trees, but she alone remained to watch him leave.

A peculiar sense of familiarity raked through his chest, but all a man could do was breath, "Valar Murghulis," before retreating through the woods.

When he found a hollow to tuck himself into for the night he dreamed of a wolf with grey eyes. In the morning he was unable to say if it were the creature or the girl.

ooooo

Serving became a hard task to give himself to completely. He finished his promised jobs, for though he was only a sellsword he was as honest as they come, and then he could hold back no longer.

The House of Black and White called to him. Long overdue were his personal praises to the Many-Faced God. His serving abroad had gone on long enough, it was time to go back. These were the lies he repeated to himself until he had himself convinced there was reason more for him to return than the hope of seeing a lovely girl again.

_ Vale's Kiss_ was the name of the ship that brought him to Braavos. A man was a sailor, and on the worst nights—when the waves threatened to roll the ship with the force of their crashes, when all one could do was hang on and empty one's stomach until it was over—he wondered how the girl had fared on her way over.

Then he would once again repeat his reasons for his return, for he did not know for sure that she had come.

Braavos hadn't changed.

The same people filled the docks, the streets, the shops. The same smells as well—stenches of fish, wafts of stews, salt in the air. The House of Black and White stood in its dark glory, windowless, ebony and weirwood doors stark against the stone. Stark.

He searched the city by day and visited the temple by night, bringing with him a different face each time. Arya Stark was nowhere to be found.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hereafter**

TeeFade

Disclaimer: I am so glad George R. R. Martin allows me to play in his world with his  
characters, and goodness knows their genius does not belong to me!

Thank to those who have followed and reviewed this, and to everyone  
taking the time to read this. Please enjoy this chapter!

There were motions, and each morning the acolyte went through all of them. The cleansing, meditating, transformation and dressing were so much routine now that she probably could do it all in her sleep, but each new morning it was harder and harder to pretend that she was successfully making a clean slate of herself. If they hadn't taught her to lie so well she was sure to have been thrown out by now.

The truth was that the slight, fierce girl, going by whatever name she might think up, was in a predicament. She owed much to the House of Black and White, to Him with Many Faces, the waif, the kindly man, even Izembaro, to whom she was apprenticed. This she knew.

She also knew that she wanted to learn this craft—the ways of the faceless men were so intruiquing, the power they had so attractive that she was lying with her whole being every day to remain and learn more. Therein lay the problem; she was unwilling to be a servant.

She was not 'no one', as she tried to pretend to be all the time. She was a Stark. Arya Stark. And though she sometimes struggled with remembering everything that Arya Stark was before she tried to forget herself, she knew that Arya Stark had only one purpose for spending her years learning the sacred art of the faceless man.

It was so she could bestow the gift upon those whose name she still whispered to herself in the dead of night. _Valar Morghulis. _

ooooo

When he entered the temple he used the ebony door, seeking shelter beneath its shadow. He would pay hommage to whichever God of death he adopted that night, he would circle the pool, and then he would find a spot to wait and watch.

But it was in the city, among its merchants, thieves, and whores, in its alleys and on its docks that he searched more ruthlessly. One did not speak in the Many-Faced God's temple, after all.

"A man seeks a girl," he would start, but when his search came up empty he altered it so that he was seeking a boy. Maybe Arry had come. Still nothing. Patience waned and eventually a man's questions quickened, his tone of voice edging on desperate.

"I am looking for a girl," he said then, "dark hair, grey eyes, foul mouthed and clever."

But there were many girls in Braavos eager to be the girl he sought, their hands outstretched for coin.

The problem, he thought, was that she was trying not to be Arya Stark, and if that were true than he was looking for no one.

ooooo

"Welcome, brother," the priest greeted. He wore a robe of black and white and the face of an old man with crows feet wrinkles hinting laughter and a smile on his lips, "Valar morghulis."

"Valar dohaeris," he replied, though he now questioned the saying. Why exactly was it that all men must serve? It did not even sound a choice, and it hadn't been in his case.

He had been a child of eight, orphaned by the black cup and peaceful death the temple offered and left by his mother as her thanks to Him of Many Faces. There had been so much pain in him that forgetting who he was had been a welcome task. It was a lifetime ago, and though a man had lost track of his years of service he felt that he must have served long enough.

It was frowned upon to show interest in a specific servant. But he could think of no other way to find out if Arya had ever used that coin he gave her.

He started carefully, the right side of his mouth tilted up slightly. Masking himself with amusement was a habit that followed him through many faces.

"A man gave a coin and has come to search for it," were his words. His eyebrows lifted slightly, asking the unspoken question.

"You ask of a coin, yet it is a girl you seek," the priest's smile faded, eyes darkening with suspicion.

A man did not know what to say.

"I—" he started without finishing. Instead he pressed his lips together and stared boldly. Yes, he was looking for a girl, what of it?

"Who are you?" the priest asked.

His jaw tensed in order to hold back the scowl that threatened his lips. The question is reminiscent of his long ago days as an acolyte.

"I am no one," he deadpanned dutifully. Valar dohaeris.

The priest nodded in satisfaction, his lips twisting and eyes glinting with meaning, "And so is she."

Emotions scourged through him, sharp as a double-edged sword. His years as a faceless man helped to still his expression. She was here. She may be out on assignment, but the priest knew of her and she's here.

Conversely, she would soon be gone, and a man cannot say what they do with your true face once they take it from you. She was not yet old or trained enough for the last rite, but he would have to find her soon.

"Who have you come to serve?" the priest sighed, "Him of Many Faces, or yourself?"

He gathered his trinkets, the girl's name, her face, her voice, and buried them all beneath layers of blankness. His mind cleared, his mouth frowning in shame, and then he lied with all of his being.

"A man comes to serve. Valar Dohaeris," he bowed his head, eyes closing reverently, and he waited. He did not notice the cat peering down at the scene from the rafters.

ooooo

She may have lost herself if it weren't for the dreams. Many nights she slept in her bed but spent the hours living through the eyes of a wolf. At first she had assumed they merely were dreams, but some things were too real. She would wake up with lungs filled with the cold air of the north, the metallic taste of blood in her mouth, and more than once with a growl on her lips.

Once accepted, it was a comfort to know that Nymeria was alive and thriving with a pack of her own.

The night they came upon the man, Arya woke up with her heart racing and a name on her lips. It was a name she hadn't thought of in quite some time. "Jaqen H'ghar." He did not look like the dead man she remembered, but something about his stare was familiar and bade her to stay Nymeria's attack. It were his parting whispered words that confirmed everything.

Once she remembered him she remembered everything. Her reason for coming here in the first place. That Arya Stark owed it to her family to deplete that list of hers.

With all that came the realization that Jaqen H'ghar—despite that he'd kept her secrets, despite the odd sort of trust she'd been able to afford him, despite those that he'd killed for her—had lied to her.

Yes, the art of the faceless men could help her complete her task, but her training would have her believe that she could not be the judge. As a servant of Him of Many Faces, a girl would only be able to bestow the gift on those she was tasked or hired to kill.

And so she struggled, trying to hide herself without consequence. To learn and know but not master.

Yet again, Arya played a part.

She had known when a man arrived in Braavos, almost to the day. Morning meditation found her experiencing the world through the eyes of a cat. The wolf girl had never had an easy time of staying still, so this was just another instance of pretend. Truthfully, her apprenticeship would have her feeling caged in most every day if it weren't for these explorative meditation times each morning. Not only that, but it was her way of keeping tabs on the city. She continued learning three new things every day, most of them through the eyes of a stray feline.

A man had been roaming the docks that morning, asking after a dark haired girl with the look of a boy to her and a foul mouth. He was tanned with a full, dark beard and a chunk missing out of one ear. Though he appeared exhausted, his face would have him aged no more than five and twenty. Not Jaqen H'ghar, to be sure, but she'd only known one man who had given her a coin like the one he was transferring from one clenched fist to the other.

Gasping, eyes jerked open and a girl felt faint at the speed with which she had retreated from the cat. She struggled for a moment, ignoring the stiffness her limbs had acquired from being still, to gather herself off the floor. It was as if standing on her own two feet was the best way to remind herself that she was indeed a girl, not a cat. Or wolf, for that matter. She was a girl who was in control of herself and had chosen to stay here and learn despite...everything.

So why did his arrival muddle her thoughts so?

Her teeth clenched together as well as her fists, and the girl's face adopted Arya Stark's trademark scowl as she stood in the middle of her room and decided how she should feel about this.

Jaqen H'ghar was dead, first of all. He had said so himself. This man was a stranger. And yet Arya still felt betrayed that he wasn't truthful about all it meant to become a faceless man, and angry that he lied about the coin. Use it if she needed him again, he said. That day had come and gone moons ago and the coin had only brought her further from anyone she knew and no closer to him. Until this day, it seemed.

No, she decided stubbornly, she would not seek him out. She had not given him a coin in case he needed her, after all, and she'd managed without him this far. Her decision was made and cast in stone.

But, of course, she could not keep away.

When she could get away without notice she would don a blind, beggar girl's face and go wandering Braavos as Beth. A ratty feline never strayed far from her feet, and the girl would keep moving until she found a man searching for a face that had belonged to her. Fierce, he said. Clever and scowling, he said.

Once he stopped in front of her with a question half asked. "Have you seen-" and then cut short with a softened sigh. Beth's face screwed up into a scowl before she could stop it; even disguised Arya didn't take well to pity.

"I know what you look for," she spoke with Beth's soft voice, Braavosi accent heavy, "clever girls with foul mouths don't last long in Braavos."

"This, a man knows," he replied, Beth could hear the resignation in his tone but through the feline she noticed something familiar. The right corner of his mouth has been tilted up, as if to force a look of amusement. She wondered for a moment if he has seen through her disguise, but the man retrieved a coin and pressed it into her hand instead, "Such a silver tongue will do a girl well."

"Thank you, sir," Beth nodded her head, the coin clutched to her chest with both hands. She had to bite her bottom lip between her teeth to keep herself from saying 'This, a girl knows.' He walked away without another word, continuing his search for the girl he just left.

She did not like him. She decided this as she climbed into bed that night. His face was too unfamiliar despite the words he spoke, and he should have been able to know it was her. Had he not known her secret all the time that Arry had been a girl? No, he was too much changed, she thought. Her Jaqen H'ghar really was dead and this was a man she knew not.

This was why she was unprepared the next morning during her meditation when through the eyes of a feline in the rafters she found him speaking to the kindly man.


End file.
